Tabs

Wednesday, July 30, 2014

For most of our year-long legal separation, my ex and I
lived in different parts of the same house. It was partly to save money, partly
because he was traveling for work and would be gone anyway, and partly because
neither of us seemed willing to move out.

It wasn’t until we got in a fight one day last May that I
realized I needed to move forward. An hour after the argument, I was touring an
apartment complex. The next day I put down a security deposit. My move-in date
was July 29.

I hired a moving company, and after a friend gave me the
boxes from her recent move, I started packing. This time the military wasn’t
helping with the move. I was on my own.

My ex and I had already walked through the house and split our
possessions with little conflict. I spent the next 2 months packing on the weekends,
a task that was both physically and emotionally exhausting.

Somehow I thought the process of placing items in boxes
would be as easy as it sounds -- and some days it was. But there were other
days when each item placed in a box flooded my brain with memories, both joyful
and painful. The teacups we bought in Japan. The photo albums that spanned
almost 15 years. The jewelry he’d given me, including the engagement ring that
I had taken off so long ago that the once prominent indentation on my ring
finger was now gone.

Some days I blasted music to drown out the memories. Some
days I gave in and cried on the floor.

I finally finished packing a few days before the big day. I
called to confirm my move-in date with the the moving company, finding it
strange that they didn’t pick up the phone.
I figured they were busy. After all, I live in a military town, and it
was prime PCS season.

Then July 29 arrived. My brother flew halfway across the
country to help, the kids were in camp and I was able to make a couple of trips
to the apartment to start moving items before the movers were supposed to show
up.

But the movers didn’t show up. I called repeatedly. No answer.
At one point, I had to go back to the
apartment for my Internet and cable hookup. By mid-afternoon, I had to face the
fact that the movers weren’t coming.

While my brother somehow found a moving company that was
available the next day, I drove to the address of my no-show guy to see if I
could find this jerk in his office. I pulled into the parking lot to find a
police car.

Turns out, the moving company I hired wasn’t really a moving
company, but a thief the police were actively looking for. The policewoman said
I was lucky he didn’t show because the chances were good he would have loaded
my belongings onto his truck and disappeared with them in addition to my
deposit he had already pocketed.

So instead of getting settled in my new apartment, I was
filing a police report that led to a warrant for a man’s arrest.

I was devastated. July 29 was supposed to be my new
beginning. Because of this crook, I had to bring all the bedding back from the
apartment, remake all the beds, and spend another night in the house I had
already said my goodbyes to. My new beginning was ruined, and I had to mentally
prepare myself to spend my second last night in this house.

Fortunately, the next day the move actually happened. It took
way longer than it should have, and my brother had to get on a plane halfway
through, but by the end of the day, I was officially moved out of the old and
into the new.

Shortly after the truck arrived at the house, a neighbor
came over, another mil spouse asking if we were PCS’ing. (I hadn’t told her
about the divorce. In fact, only one neighbor knew I was moving out. I still
didn’t know how to tell people, and I just wanted to slip away quietly.)

“You’re getting divorced?” she asked, clearly shocked. “How
long have you been married?”

“13 years.”

“That’s a long time. You guys can work things out.”

“No,” I said, trying not to cry. “We can’t.”

She meant well, but it was statements like that I was hoping
to avoid. The marriage was unfixable. It was time to move on.

When the last item was loaded onto the truck and my kids and
the dog were loaded into my car, I did one last walk-through of the house. The
items I left behind were just as telling as those I chose to take. The painting
from Thailand. The obnoxious desk I once worked at. The dresser that was so
oversized and heavy that it left gouges in the hardwood floor as the movers
pushed it into position when we first moved in.

One last look. I said goodbye. And I closed the door for the
last time.

People often ask me why I was the one who moved out. “You’ll
have the kids more. Why don’t you get to keep the house?”

I’m sure life would have been easier if I had been the one
to stay, especially now that my ex has moved to Hawaii and the house has new
owners. Knowing how transient his life is with the military, it probably would
have been more logical for me to stay.

But I didn’t want the house.

We lived in that house together for 5 years, a lifetime by
military standards. But for many reasons, it never felt like home to me. That
house saw too much. The walls held too many bad memories and too few good ones.
I needed a fresh start. I needed to make my own home in my own way.

Moving out of that house was one of the hardest things I’ve
ever done. But moving-out day was also moving-in day. So I can look back on
that day with sadness as the day I moved out of the last house I lived in with
my husband. Or I can see it as the exciting day that I moved into my new home,
the home where so far good memories outnumber the bad.

As I re-signed my lease a few days ago, I realized that this
is where my new life started. One year ago today was a day of new beginnings. I
may not live here forever, but for now, I can’t imagine living anywhere else.